


Little Death

by Her_Madjesty



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Angst, Breathplay, Exhibitionism, F/M, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Light Domme/sub, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sub!Gleb, This Is Fucked Up Fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 00:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16713487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Her_Madjesty
Summary: The sex would be even better if the woman mewling in his arms wasn’t claiming to be a known enemy of the state, but beggers. Choosers. Etcetera.





	Little Death

**Author's Note:**

> Hello - I am wildly out of practice with both smut and fic, so I hope you'll excuse the brevity and the...aggressiveness? with which this was written. If it's not your cup of tea, perhaps hit the back button and take a look at some of the more wholesome stuff I've written.
> 
> Can you sub from the top, though? This fic asks the real questions, and the answer is: yes.

Gleb keeps his gun beneath her chin while he fucks her.

He doesn’t want to. Not really. That is to say, he wants to fuck her. He’s wanted to fuck her since he saw her shining against the snowbanks of Leningrad (though perhaps not consciously; she’d looked at him with eyes so wide that he’d fallen back a step, too distracted by the memory of gunshots in her eyes to notice the keen way she scented the air and took in the taste of a gentle man).

He’d prefer, though, not to culminate that too-long fantasy with his gun in hand.

(It’d be even better if the woman mewling in his arms wasn’t claiming to be a known enemy of the state, but beggers. Choosers. Etcetera.)

(Still, his eyes are closed.)

Above them, the golden, angelic statues that fill the Paris Opera House cover their eyes. _Swan Lake_ leans into its second act. On stage, Odette and Odile take a moment to circle one another. Rothbart clutches at his mimic while she stares at her mirror. The two swan princesses look less like enemies and more like curious birds, pecking at each other through the cage the magician has created.

Gleb leans Anya back against one of the opera house’s cushioned benches.

Beyond the curtained doors of their hideaway, there are ushers and a few lingering well-to-dos finding their seats. The gossip is idle; there’s been a commotion with Dowager Empress Marie, but the man who caused it has been disposed of and left to the grasping clutches of Paris’s night air.

The hand not clutching Gleb’s firearm presses over Anya’s mouth as she cries out. The cold metal buries itself against her jugular.

“Don’t stop!”

The press of her lips against his palm leaves Gleb harder than anything else she’s done tonight – harder, perhaps, than anything else he’s seen a woman do, ever.

Beneath him, Anya forces the fabric of her dress out of his way. Her thighs hug his narrow hips. She cranes her neck and brushes their lips past one another as she pulls him close, better to let him grind against her. She is warm beneath her white cotton. No, not warm. She is blisteringly hot and damp enough to leave traces of herself on his uniform.

(In the back of his mind, he supposes that makes sense, even if he can’t fathom her want. She was the one, after all, to haul him up from the ground. It was her hand that placed his gun back beneath her chin. Her steely, Romanov eyes met his as she palmed him through his thinning pants, and her level, too-calm voice asked him – commanded him – to take her as he would. Not as he wanted. But as he deserved.)

Gleb presses his forehead against hers and shivers as her hands start to roam. Though it is his hand on the gun and his weight on top of her, she is the one who plays with him like a clockwork toy. She undoes each of his buttons with a deliberateness that is deliciously Russian. Gleb relishes in the way her fingers move almost enough not to wince as she throws each broken off piece of metal away. His buttons disappear beneath other benches in the room, beneath slips of carpet, from his consciousness.

There is the scratch of her nails against his covered chest – the warmth of her against his cock – the curve of her smile burned onto his brain – and nothing else.

Nothing else, save for his gun.

He imagines – or he must be imagining – the smell of its powder mixing with her want. And still, Anya leans into the kiss of metal more readily than she responds to any kiss of his.

“Don’t stop,” she moans again.

A drop of sweat drips from Gleb’s forehead and onto her lips. He stares as she licks it off.

“Why would I?”

Anya laughs. Gleb presses his free hand against her mouth more firmly and melts as her amusement fades into a moan.

Anya finds the button to his pants. Like the ones that used to hold his jacket together, it is broken off and thrown away. That same cool hand takes his aching cock in hand and strokes it through the meager fabric of his underwear.

Gleb’s finger twitches against the trigger. As he gasps into Anya’s mouth, it’s too easy to taste her smile.

In some distance, other universe, there’s gentle applause. Odile, Gleb imagines, has entered unto her prince in the form of his real lover, ready to play the deceiver.

Anya slips skin against skin, her hand against his cock out. After freeing him, her touch drift to the still-covered curves of his thighs. Gleb lets out the most choked of sounds as she wriggles her panties down around her knees, then spreads her legs to let him feel the wetness of her.

“Come on!”

Gleb growls – something, God knows, and opens his eyes for the first time in several minutes.

(He can’t – shouldn’t – doesn’t dare to meet the Romanov eyes that stare up at him.)

“You,” he grunts, slipping inside of her with ease, “are a twisted. Little. Minx.” It’s a struggle to keep his voice soft as he ruts into her, unrepentant in the grip he keeps on her mouth and his gun. All the same, he adjusts his hold over her body until he sees her eyelashes start to flutter and her cheeks flush red with blood.

“What kind of woman are you?” he asks – demands where he has no right to demand. “What kind of woman needs craves her own death this way?”

Anya’s eyes start to glaze over. Gleb holds his breath but does not pull his hand away from her mouth, does not stop to ensure that she’s taking in enough air.

She says – something, he’s sure of it, but there’s another bout of applause and the slight creak of wooden floorboards beyond their quiet patio. The threat of discovery sends a bullet up his spine.

Gleb doesn’t know how long he presses into her. All that he knows, in the heartbeats that follow, is that Anya n _é_ e Anastasia’s mouth falls open, her pussy grows tight, and his grip on his gun – falters.

On stage, Siegfried swears his undying love to Odile. In an opera box, above them both, Odette wilts, cursed forever.

Gleb tries to keep his eyes open as he cums into Russia’s long lost Imperial, but can’t, can’t, can’t.


End file.
